I am not wiping away a tear. I am wiping away sweat.
I put a bit of commentary re: me and my banjo, an Alvarez Silver Princess purchased by my father in 1974 from a music store on Lenox Ave. in Jacksonville, Florida. Apparently, a resonator exists for some Silver Princesses…I think the banjo generally tends toward too loud anyway, but I would be curious to see what the old girl sounded like with something to hold her ghosts in place.
(I just checked online for info. about her, but apparently she is rare. Of course she is. Of course.)
(nice guy from Paul Hawthorne’s site wrote me – in my response to letting them know my banjo exists – with some info. about resonators and the Silver line, Princesses and Belles. I might put together a photo essay about my banjo. I am definitely happy to have found the site, really solid instruction re: 5 string. I am super self-taught, with the exception of a nice guy from Portland whose name I cannot remember, but who improved my playing dramatically with the anchoring of the ring finger on the head.)
By the way, I do speak about ghosts a lot. I don’t have much evidence of ACTUAL ghosts – other than all the oddities that seem to crop up at the peripheries around here. I tend to think of ghosts as whatever your heart clings to in order to get through the day. The things that nobody else can see, but that you rely on in some elemental way.
The ghosts that inhabit my banjo are simple harmonics…just like the clouds are just clouds.
Also: a really much better take of Photovoltaic just went up on the tube…
Still no hand has been extended – I saw an odd number on my call log this morning, either a 718 or a 781 area code…Brooklyn or suburban Boston. I had missed the call. I called back, “Hi – my name is Faith and I saw this number on my call log and wanted to make sure that nobody was trying to get in touch with me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry! I was trying to call my daughter and I dialed the wrong number.”
Someone will figure out what to do with me. I just have to agree.
A ghost by any other name…
Oh yeah – good sunrise this morning and I will need to do a solid cloud post fairly soon. I will – for the moment – leave ya’ll to consider the implicative geometry of my recent post. Still waiting for an explanation. I’ll open the comments – please be nice…constructive…if anything. If I don’t hear anything, well – I’ll just keep trying to figure things out on my own…which is, at the very least, informative and entertaining.
Oh – if any of ya’ll Tallahassee folks runs across Mr. Harry Crews – let him know I exist. His books don’t seem so odd to me. Maybe it’s somethin’ to do with S. Georgia?
I started boxing after I read The Knockout Artist, in a moldering little gym on Grand Avenue in Portland. Kept at it ’til I realized that a constant black eye was about the last thing a girl like me needed. This was back in 1997-1998. My trainer was named George, a grey haired flyweight, Puerto Rican from the Bronx. He really wished I were as fast as I am strong.
I’m no good at punching people, never have been.
okay, recently – —
proclaimed an unexpected hatred towards you…well…
It’s true though, what I said.
I don’t hate you for it though.
Hating you was fun for all of five minutes…and then it just made me sad for everyone. All this singing about waiting and what not…it’s not for you. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. Maybe this?